In The Hands Of A Little One
by Fyrie
Summary: One of the Fellowship observes his companions, wondering at the hands that fate has placed them in.


Squatting on his toes near the hobbits, Legolas withdrew the arrows from the quiver slung against his shoulder. It had become a habit, he realised, to check them, every evening, even when there may be no threat.  
  
In spite of the arduous journey they were on and the attack from the beast in the water that they had survived, before entering the formidable, dark mines of Moria, he noted that his hands yet remained clean and smooth.  
  
Laying the handful of Elvish arrows reverently in his lap, the green fabric of his tunic shifting beneath them, he turned his attention to each of his hands.  
  
Rubbing his thumb across the tapered tips of long, slender, pale fingers of his right hand, he turned it over, slowly examining it for any scratches or flaws that had not been there previously.  
  
There were none.  
  
Only the faintest rosy tints at his fingertips even suggested that he drawn his bow to go to Aragorn's aid, in rescuing Frodo outside of the mines.  
  
He repeated the careful examination of his left, shifting the weight of the light arrows with his free hand. The wood of the shafts were like silk against his fingertips, smoothed to perfection, almost as smooth as his own skin.  
  
A small smile almost crossed his lips. That would please his father. If your hands appeared broken and dirt-stained, it spoke of weakness that stated that you had fallen too close to an enemy or an enemy's terrain.  
  
In spite of the fact that he was a Warrior, he had retained his grace and the beauty that came with the blood of the Elf. He had not fallen, his skill was unbroken, his hands remained unscored and unmarred.  
  
Looking up at the gloom around them, he shifted his weight on his toes, not even causing one loose fragment of shale to fall. That was good, the soundlessness of his motion. In the emptiness of the dark, it seemed wrong to disturb the peace.  
  
Even the breathing of the other members of the small group seemed deafening in the unfathomable depths of the caves, echoing off the invisible walls and gullies that went on for what seemed like an eternity.  
  
Pulling his attention from the cold dark around them, the Elf let his eyes wander over his eight companions. Each of them was behaving differently, some seeming at peace, others not so.  
  
Legolas could not be certain if peace or turmoil was more central in his thoughts. His light eyes drifted to Gimli, the Dwarf.  
  
The bushy red hair and beard of the stocky figure seemed to flicker like flame in the light issued from Gandalf's staff, his dark eyes glittering like unmined jewels, hidden deep in the coarseness of his harsh features.  
  
He was sitting further into the darkness, to the left of the Elf, against a crumbling rock, looking tired and frustrated, ready to be on the move. He kept tossing impatient glances in the direction of Gandalf, scowling darkly.  
  
Part of Legolas wanted to sneer at the savage-looking figure, dwarves seen as a lower species to his people, but he recalled that he was part of this 'Fellowship' and that it would serve only ill to provoke his companions in anger.  
  
Since the Dwarf was oblivious to his observation, the Elf slowly sat down on the rock he was balancing on, stretching out his legs slowly and carefully, examining the squat form of Gimli from behind one of the braids that hung down beside his cheek.  
  
He was seated, cross-legged, his long axe resting across his lap, his helmet still in place, casting strange shadows across his face. His ungloved hands were resting on the long handle, catching the Elf's curious eye.  
  
The Dwarf's horny, callused hands were a never-ending source of fascination for the Elf. He had seldom been close enough to one of that kind to examine them, but to see how rough the hands were. They spoke of hard work and struggle.  
  
That was the thing that intrigued Legolas the most.  
  
What, he wondered, had the Dwarf done to have such savaged hands. Hands that no doubt reflected on the condition of the rest of the body. Surely it meant there was an absence of skill or a weakness that had let him become so damaged and worn.  
  
In the same instant, though, the Elf knew that this Dwarf was not weak. If his callused hands showed the condition, they did speak of hardship, but they also spoke of surviving cruelty.  
  
Those same hands were slowly curling and uncurling around the heft of the axe that the Dwarf carried. It seemed to be the way that he could display his vexation and weariness without resorting to violence. That control surprised his observer.  
  
Legolas shifted his gaze to the cruel-looking axe. The weapons carried by his allies, the Elf noticed, also seemed to reflect the owner as well as the hands.  
  
The axe looked as much part of the Dwarf as his own arrows and blade seemed fitting to him, the long, solid handle as looking violent and dangerous as the sharp-bladed head of the axe.  
  
And as violent and dangerous as the Dwarf himself.  
  
His gaze moved on swiftly when the Dwarf's dark, hooded eyes moved and glared up at him. While he did not particular delight in being accompanied by the Dwarf, he did not wish to find himself in conflict with the small and undeniably strong being.  
  
Another figure moved into his line of sight, pacing, also impatient like the Dwarf.  
  
This was no Dwarf, though. It was one of the two from the lines of Men, the one who had not yet earned his respect or his trust. The one who kept on glaring around suspiciously, as if he truly did not wish to be present.  
  
Boromir.  
  
His boots sent loose stones rattling across the floor of the cavern and skittering down the crevices, his hands gripping his horn, the symbol of his position and rank, if Legolas recalled correctly.  
  
Like the Dwarf, he had rough-looking hands. Scars were scattered over his knuckles from blades and blows exchanged with others. Even now, scratches and cuts marred the weather-beaten skin.  
  
He was not going to any efforts to conceal his frustration, like the Dwarf, though. He paced like a caged beast, tossing his head and the Elf could almost hear a growl issuing from his throat.  
  
Dangerous.  
  
That was what the human seemed to be.  
  
He looked away calmly, when Boromir shot a dark look in his direction. Apparently the rough human was still bitter that he had dared to confront him, on first association, in Rivendell.  
  
That was when Aragorn has interceded on the human's part, trying to keep the peace and the anonymity of his own name.  
  
Aragorn.  
  
Here was a puzzle that Legolas yet had to solve.  
  
He did not accept the name given to him by his line, assuming the title of Strider. He did not follow the path destined to him. He did what he choose, went where he chose and fought for what he chose to.  
  
Perhaps it was the legacy of the father that caused him to keep silent.  
  
Perhaps, he felt – in some way – he was responsible for this quest they had been forced to undertake, to save Middle Earth from the darkness that threatened to engulf them all.  
  
Like the Dwarf, the dark human was sitting deeper into the shadows, close enough to spring to the defense of those who may need it, but far enough to be isolated and left to his own business.  
  
His hood was raised, probably to stave off the chill of the caverns, the cloak heavy on his broad shoulders. Legolas could see him rubbing his uncovered hands together to ward off the cold.  
  
It always came back to the hands, he noticed absently.  
  
Like Boromir, Aragorn's hands were scattered with scars and calluses, more of the latter though. To be a Ranger, he had to be able to use his hands, use them to make his weapons act as part of him.  
  
Strangely, Legolas did not find himself scorning those calluses that marked the Ranger's hands. His respect for the man was too great for that and he would hear no one speak against Aragorn as long as his bow and blade were within his reach.  
  
Looking down at the arrows still resting in his lap, Legolas nodded to himself, lowering the quiver from his shoulder and sliding the arrows back into place. The soft thump of the hefts hitting the bottom of the quiver made one of the Hobbits nearby jolt awake in surprise.  
  
He blinked up at Legolas, the Elf returning the sleepy, inquiring look with an emotionless stare that made the Hobbit's eyes dart away quickly. The corner of the Elf's lips almost rose.  
  
The Hobbits were amusing characters, that was certain.  
  
That one in particular, Pippin, seemed to be the most amusing and least intelligent of the four. He and his closest friend, Merry, could seldom be told apart, similar in mannerisms and personality.  
  
Pippin, though, was infernally clumsy.  
  
If something was to be tripped upon, Pippin would successfully do so. If something was to be knocked over, Pippin would achieve that end. If someone was to be at the receiving end of Gandalf's ire, for folly, it would be Pippin.  
  
Now, the Hobbit was fumbling with a small bag. It was barely identifiable from his clothing, a small, shabby, brown, hand-woven piece of linen, stitched into a crude little sack, no doubt containing a hoard of some kind of food.  
  
The corner of the Elf's lips DID rise, when one small hand furtively withdrew a chunk of a coarse, seed loaf, stuffed with shreds of some kind of meat.  
  
Like all of his small companions, Pippin was dressed in clothing that would be considered coarse and unfitting for any Elves, but it seemed fitting for the little Hobbits, the halflings as they were prone to be called.  
  
Once more, the Elf found his eyes on Pippin's small, quick hands. Like his three companions, he carried a small sword, but he had never been truly schooled in using it before they began their quest.  
  
His slight, almost childlike hands were built more for foraging than combat, nimble and dexterous, able to snatch food from anywhere, when it seemed impossible.  
  
A thin coat of pale-coloured woolly hair was scattered across the back of his sun-bronzed hands, just as there were small sproutings of curly hair on the Hobbit's rough-skinned feet.  
  
How different those small, resilient creatures were to the tall, willowy Elves that he, Legolas, was familiar with. Small, squat, lovers of a life full of food and friendship and living it in peace and contentment.  
  
To think of them, willingly coming on this dangerous mission to Mordor. It seemed to go against everything he had ever heard of the Hobbit race.  
  
Devouring his meal, the Hobbit warily glanced back up at the Elf again, receiving another impassive stare. His attention immediately flicked back to his half-eaten piece of bread, his fingers turning it over with a small measure of discomfort.  
  
Apparently, he did not like being watched.  
  
A rattle of stone caught the Elf's attention anyway.  
  
His eyes skimmed around the steep darkness, spotting a spidery silhouette leaping from one rocky outcrop to another in the sheer belly of the cleft. Glowing orbs that could only be eyes flashed in his direction and the Elf flinched.  
  
Whatever the thing was, he did not want to see it come any closer.  
  
One hand rose to the quiver against his back, but a tingle at the back of his mind made him look around questioningly. He found Gandalf looking at him and saw the barely noticeable shake of the Wizard's head.  
  
He nodded, lowering his hand. Gandalf nodded and looked away, his long, silver hair rippling in the dim light as he turned back to the gloomy cavern ahead of them, the way they may yet have to take.  
  
His gnarled hands were holding his Wizard's staff upright, the skin spotted and lined with age, blue lines faintly tracking beneath the loose, wrinkled skin. Those hands spoke of experience and an experience that carried wisdom with it.  
  
The bright white light from the tip of staff only served to highlight how aged the wizard's hands looked, his face hidden from the Elf by the thick curtains of his tangled silver hair. It spoke of years of experience, something that the Elf had grown to respect as he had aged himself.  
  
A movement from beside the old Wizard pulled Legolas' attention from Gandalf, to the small, timid figure who was the one at the centre of this quest that they had found themselves on.  
  
Frodo Baggins.  
  
The smallest one of their number.  
  
The ring that would choose their fate was gripped in his small, childish hand.  
  
Once more it all came back to the hands.  
  
This time, the hands of an individual, holding the key to their survival or their doom.  
  
Legolas watched him speaking softly to Gandalf. Nothing in him suggested that he was strong enough to perform the task he had claimed. He looked small, delicate, almost frail.  
  
Slender fingers closed over the ring that lay in his palm, smaller and more delicate-looking that even Pippin's. Such small and fragile fingers held the fate of all of Middle Earth.  
  
The knuckles whitened and the curled fist pressed against Frodo's chest.  
  
Legolas lifted his blue eyes to the Hobbit's pale face, dark strands of the Hobbit's hair plastered against his forehead with the dankness of the caves. Lines of worry and concern were already beginning to form around his eyes and on his smooth brow.  
  
Like his hands, his face looked child-like, too innocent and young to be involved in such a task as he was now.  
  
But he was the Ringbearer.  
  
The hands that held the Ring.  
  
The hands that held the future between small, trembling fingers.  
  
White-knuckled, trembling, small, dirty, frail...they were still the strongest pair of hands of the Fellowship.  
  
They were the only hands strong enough to bear The Ring. 


End file.
